The Weight of Night

by Christine Carbo

  Of course, the day before, Ken and some of the other officers and rangers had already asked around the campsite and the general area about any strange vehicles they may have seen hanging around, or if anyone had seen the boy talking to people other than family. No one had until now. We got a call from a man, a Mr. Roger Kelly, who’d been fishing near McDonald Creek the day before. He called in to say he’d just seen the local seven a.m. news with the information about the missing boy and claimed he had something pertinent to share with us—that he’d seen the boy while fishing in the park the afternoon before.

  Ken stayed back at headquarters while I drove through the canyon away from Glacier to Columbia Falls, a town in the northeast corner of Flathead Valley. I can’t say I was too bummed about going alone since on this particular morning, Ken reeked of aftershave, as if he were a teenager who didn’t know how much Axe to use. I chalked it up to exhaustion from working late hours.

  The sky had mostly cleared outside the canyon as well, and was almost back to its summer blue. I parked outside a small gray house and got out. Roger Kelly was waiting for me and opened the door as I walked up. He introduced me to his wife, Vera, and she offered me tea or coffee. I declined. “As you can imagine,” I said to them, getting right to it while standing in the entryway as their black-and-white border collie sniffed my hands, “we’re all in a bit of a hurry to get on with the search. What is it you’d like to share with us?”

  “Come, come in.” The man ushered me in, and we sat at a Formica table with chrome legs in a cheery yellow kitchen smelling of bacon and coffee. The dog sat to my side, eyeing me suspiciously.

  “Any information you have at all, Mr. Kelly, I’d like to hear.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Well, I was out fishing by the creek yesterday, by the mouth of it, just coming out of Lake McDonald, when I saw a boy that I’m sure was the one on the news this morning.”

  I perked up, noting the use of the word “sure.” Usually people were unsure, saying they couldn’t be positive, but thought that maybe they saw someone who looked similar. “You’re certain, you say?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. He looked so much like our grandson.” He motioned to Vera, who was sitting quietly, her eyes wide with concern. “Anyway, he was walking down the road and I didn’t think anything of it, just noticed it because he looked to be the same age as my grandson, who’s about twelve.”

  “Thirteen now, Roger,” Vera corrected him. “Parker turned ­thirteen two months ago.”

  “Which way was he walking?” I asked.

  “West, toward the bridge.”

  “Do you recall what he looked like or what he was wearing?”

  “He had wavy dark hair. A little shorter than the photo on the news. And I seem to have blue in my mind, like a blue T-shirt or shorts or something. I’m not superclear on the clothing, but I know he had wavy hair, like my grandson. I did a double take because I almost thought it was Parker.”

  “Light blue or dark blue shirt?”

  “Light. Not navy,” he said. I knew from the mother that Jeremy was wearing a light blue T-shirt. I felt relieved that the man probably had seen the boy, and I wasn’t wasting my time. In the photo we used on the news, he was wearing a red-and-brown-striped shirt, so I knew he wasn’t going off that image.

  “How tall was he? Did you notice?”

  “Again, like my grandson. About five-four, five-five. Hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet.”

  He had that detail correct as well. “Is that all? You just saw him walking?”

  “No, so after about another five minutes of fishing with no luck—too warm, really, and I knew better than to try and fish on such a hot day, but I had cabin fever from staying inside so long from the smoke and wanted to get out. Anyway,” he continued. “I decided to head to West Glacier’s little golf course instead. I had my clubs in the back in case the fishing stunk, so I hopped in my car and headed back toward the bridge, and before crossing it, I noticed the boy talking to someone in a truck by the driver’s-side window. I figured it was the boy’s relative or someone he knew.”

  “Did you notice what type of truck it was?”

  Roger slowly shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t. I didn’t pay attention to it, really. Just the boy, because of the resemblance to Parker.”

  “How about the color? A license plate?”

  “I want to say dark, but I couldn’t really tell you whether it was black, brown, maybe maroon . . .” He squinted. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t pay attention to the details. I only noticed the boy, not the type of truck, or the driver and not the license plate either. Couldn’t even tell you if it was a Montana license or some other state. Like I said, I only noticed because of my grandson. I was kind of in a lazy mood, daydreaming and thinking that I’d like to get Parker out fishing with me, that it’d been a long time since I’d taken him and with him becoming a teenager and all, it wouldn’t be long before he wasn’t going to want to do things like that with me at all. I guess we feel the cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon even more from a grandparent’s perspective, only from the other side. We’re the ones asking them to play.”

  I finished jotting it all down, then for no particular reason, wrote Cat’s in the cradle in the corner of my paper in cursive letters. Like I said, I didn’t have kids. I know it seems stubborn that I didn’t give in on the child thing with my ex, but my genetic tree was not a pretty one. My mother was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder (an umbrella diagnosis that includes depression and schizophrenia). With paranoid schizophrenia’s tendency to skip a generation and my father’s alcoholic tendencies, it would be pure foolishness to bring a child into the world with that kind of DNA tangled in the family tree branches. “That’s okay, Mr. Kelly,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful already. Do you remember anything else?”

  “Yes, so I looked in the rearview after passing and I saw the boy get in to the truck, on the other side.”

  A pang of dread shot through me, but I forced myself to stay still. “You’re sure? You saw the boy get in?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I saw him open the passenger door but, you know, I didn’t pay much attention. I figured whoever was inside it was a family member or a friend—that the kid belonged with the truck.”

  “Was the truck there long?”

  “I couldn’t say. I kept going.”

  “Did you have reason to be suspicious about anything?”

  “No.” He shook his head, thinking. “No, nothing like that. I didn’t think twice until I saw the news and knew that I’d definitely noticed that boy. I’m one hundred percent positive it was that boy.”

  “Did you see the boy or the truck again?”

  “No, I didn’t. And like I said, even if I would have seen it again, I’m not sure I would have even known it was the same truck since I didn’t pay that much attention to it, just to the kid.” Roger stared at me, his head tilted to the side and his eyes now drooping with the realization that without information on the vehicle, the task of locating the boy would be much more difficult. I could see he felt bad for not being more observant about an adolescent who’d hopped into a truck and turned up later flashing across the nightly and morning news. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Is there any reason you didn’t call last night, Mr. Kelly?”

  “We didn’t watch the news last night. When I got home, we went out for some barbecue at Tracy’s.” Roger glanced at Vera and she nodded in agreement. “I wish I had, though. Damn, I wish I had. I would have called you right away.”

  “Okay then, thank you, Mr. Kelly, for contacting us. I would like a little more of your time, though, if you don’t mind.” When I stood up, the dog got up too and sniffed my hand again. “I’d like for you to follow me back to West Glacier and point out exactly where you saw this boy and the car. I’d really appreciate your help.”

  “Of
course.” He looked around for his car keys, which were sitting on the kitchen counter, then motioned to the front door. Vera followed us, and before we stepped out, she asked, “What do you think happened to him?”

  “We’re not sure, but we’re considering all possibilities.”

  “Do you think you’ll find him?” She looked genuinely worried, her brow creased, her eyes sharp.

  “We all hope so. He’s got some very anxious parents waiting for him.”

  “But you do think the truck has something to do with him being gone?”

  I tried to ignore the steely shiver running through me and looked into her hazel eyes. I didn’t want to tell her that the story her husband just shared was taking my worry to new heights and that I really, really disliked the idea of a strange vehicle in the picture, turning this into something much more terrifying than the case of a boy who found himself on the wrong trail in the woods.

  The forests were daunting enough; but a strange vehicle—that changed things, especially the time frame within which we were working. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but a young teen—provided he didn’t fall into a dangerous stream, stumble off a cliff, or get attacked by a bear or mountain lion—could survive several days out in the elements in August, when the temperatures often stayed above sixty degrees. But a child in the hands of a human predator? Statistics said we had only twenty-four hours—a deadline that was rapidly approaching—­and that the first three hours are the most critical. It had already been twenty-one hours.

  “There’s probably a very reasonable explanation for why the boy was chatting with the driver,” I said, smiling politely. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” I fibbed, trying to curb any possible gossip before Park Police decided how we would proceed. “I’m just covering all our bases by having Roger show us where he saw the boy. It’s standard procedure.” I pulled my car keys out of my pocket. “I appreciate your time. Your husband will be back soon.”

  • • •

  After Roger showed me the spot, I thanked him again, handed him my card, and told him to call me if anything at all—any other details, no matter how small or insignificant they seemed—came to his mind. Ken had met us along the Fish Creek Road, and after Roger left, we searched for tire tracks, but unfortunately the stretch of road had a hard shoulder of packed gravel, and other than a small amount of mud and some flattened grass, there were no obvious tread marks or any other suspicious signs. Still, I’d have forensics check out the place. It was now considered a crime scene. I took out my phone to call county forensics to put in the request and then snapped a few pictures of indentations in the grass.

  I hesitated before making the call. After the craziness of the dig the day before, I wanted to leave Gretchen alone. She’d been very upset—shaken and angry. I’d never seen her that way. A part of me felt protective, but I knew better than to show her that. We had become friends from all the time spent working together, but she’d given me the vibe that she wanted nothing more, and I heard her clear as the cold water of McDonald Creek. Not that she ever said it directly—I could just tell by the precise and utilitarian way she treated me, treated everyone around her, for that matter. She had a lot of boundaries for reasons I didn’t understand but ultimately accepted. I could sense something contained, something deeply buried, but I respected that. I had my own things that needed emotional burial—most people did. But damn if I wasn’t curious. If there’s one thing I understand about myself, it’s that I like order, and part of maintaining that order involves me figuring out what makes people tick.

  But I wanted to leave her be for now, so I called Sheriff Walsh instead. He could send someone here to examine the area, but my hopes weren’t high without fresh mud or dirt on the side of the road for the tires to make clear imprints.

  I asked Ken to search the surveillance footage for dark-colored trucks entering or leaving the park with a boy in the passenger seat. Without a make or model number, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. We had nearly twenty-five thousand visitors a day driving through Glacier Park’s gates during its busy months.

  I made sure the few details we had about the vehicle were wired to all local law enforcement agencies. Then I went back to campsite 23A to visit the Coreys and give them an update. Now that we knew about the truck, the investigation would transition to a whole new level. The FBI would need to be called in, and I would need to ask the family the difficult question of whether there was anyone in the area they knew who would possibly have offered Jeremy a ride.

  7

  * * *

  Gretchen

  I WOKE VERY EARLY, drenched in sweat but still safely fastened in my sleeping bag, with the mittens on. Relieved, I went to the kitchen, where I stood before the window while waiting for water for my herbal tea to boil. I have this recurring dream where I’m desperately trying to reach my father to plead with him to forgive me, but I can never reach him. All sorts of obstacles prevent me from reaching him—thin ice that breaks below me, stacks and stacks of furniture that keep growing wider and higher no matter how many pieces I move out of the way, fires that rage before me, flooding roads with currents that sweep me away right before I can get to him. It was the breaking-ice one last night. I remembered it. I stared out the window at the field and the horses grazing, their long necks curved to the ground. The sun barely crept up over the trees and yellow spears of light pierced the lawn. The kettle moaned, then cried loudly, and I switched the burner off. I would forgo caffeinated beverages like coffee until this episode of Gretchen’s Sleep Adventures passed because I didn’t need the caffeine making me jittery. My doctor in Norway had told me that any caffeine during the day at all could have an effect on my disorder, even if it was still early. Herbal tea and a caffeine-deprivation headache was a price worth paying for a better night of sleep.

  An hour later, I parked at the county building, grabbed my carrier bag, and walked in. When I entered the fluorescent-lit corridor, my feet tapping out a quiet, hushed sound on the linoleum, I was relieved to be at work again. Here I had tasks, commitment, a life where I was in control, a reprieve from my nocturnal instability. After I dropped my bag in my office, I grabbed some more herbal tea and called Lucy in Bozeman to let her know we were sending out the remains as soon as possible.

  I had just hung up when Wendy, one of our latent print examiners, gently knocked, came in, and slumped into the extra chair by my desk. She was holding a silver coffee thermos. Wendy was the only other ­female on the CSI team and I was happy to have her around. Sometimes it was challenging to be the leader, to make decisions for the team: Ray, Paxton, and Wendy, two of whom were older than me. But it helped to have Wendy around, especially since she never seemed to doubt my decisions.

  A studious-looking woman in her mid- to late forties with wire-framed glasses and a narrow pointy nose, she was a great technician in the lab and had a motherly way with the rest of the crew and with me too, probably from practice. She had a son, Kyle, a seventeen-year-old who was in all sorts of trouble: in and out of JD court for acting out in various aggressive ways, like vandalizing local businesses and starting fights with other students. He had been arrested for stealing money and other items from people’s garages that he hawked at pawnshops to support a drug habit. I knew it ripped her apart, that she felt guilty for not intervening when he was younger, although if you asked, she probably couldn’t name exactly what she would have done. And if there was ever an emotion I could fully, unequivocally relate to, it was guilt. When guilt and grief combined, a wicked, potent cancer was born, one that colonized your bones and could remain forever.

  “You’re here early,” I said to her.

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “You all right?” I asked. Her face looked pale, her hair a little messier than normal.

  “Yeah. Nothing new, really.”

  “Is Kyle still acting up?”

  She laughed and
raked her fingers through her short brown hair, tilting her head to the side. “That’s a nice way to put it: acting up.”

  “How should I put it then?”

  “Try wreaking havoc.”

  “Oh, gosh, that bad? What’s going on now?”

  Wendy winced, then took a sip from her thermos. “The usual,” she said. “Told me he’s going camping with some friends, but wouldn’t say where. I tried to ground him, tell him he can’t go anywhere. I took his keys, but he ended up finding them and took off anyway. I have no idea where he is or when he’ll get back.”

  I nodded and looked at her sympathetically. “That’s tough. Are you really worried?”

  “Par for the course. It’s always worrisome, but this isn’t the first time he’s taken off like this.” She let out a heavy sigh, then forced herself to switch gears. “So, why are you here so early?”

  “I always come in early.” I picked up my phone and hit a button to light up the screen. I figured it was later, but it was only seven thirty. I must have left the house before seven.

  “Not this early.” She looked at me, concerned. Sometimes I felt like Wendy took the time to focus on me since her own son wouldn’t tolerate any doting. She was the only person in Montana—in the United States, besides Jim—with whom I’d been tempted to share what had happened in Norway, but I hadn’t. I decided that no one in Montana except my doctor could know. I would no longer be respected, and being team leader of the forensics unit was challenging enough for a smallish blond female with a foreign accent. “Anyway, the buckle you found . . .” Wendy set her thermos down on my desk, pulled some gloves out of her lab coat, and walked out to her station. She came back holding an evidence bag containing the buckle. “I haven’t done anything to it because I’m assuming it’s going to Bozeman.”